


In the Wind

by WombatPumpkin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Mild Descriptions of a Dead Body, Old Age, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WombatPumpkin/pseuds/WombatPumpkin
Summary: Lavellan looked back on her life as an old woman. Remembering the day she received Solas’s body after the fall of Fen’Harel, the former Inquisitor reflected on the hardest thing she ever had to do and the decisions that led her there. Had she been right? Maybe, someday soon, he would tell her.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	In the Wind

**Writing Prompt Time** : Take a song and apply it to your ship! 

**Song** : _[In the Wind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aici3qwzDKE&list=RDaici3qwzDKE&index=1) _by Lord Huron (and the fic is named after it :) )

* * *

The years had been kind to her overall, Lavellan thought as she washed her face with cold water. She patted her graying skin dry with a soft towel. The mirror hanging over the wash basin reflected an elderly woman, and she was not as much a stranger anymore. Lavellan considered the woman, assessing how her image made her feel. The skin was more wrinkled than she remembered it being, her eyes and mouth lined with age. The color had fled her hair some decades ago, leaving behind only moonlight. The eyes seemed wearier, too, wiser perhaps, she hoped. 

The old woman chuckled. Her appearance suited her, Lavellan decided, though she felt nostalgia for the younger woman she used to be. So sure of herself, confident, not yet the woman grown tired of the regret she carried around her neck. 

How lucky she was, though. Not everyone she had known lived to an old age. And some others lived far longer than they should have. 

The old woman set a kettle over the fire in her hearth and prepared some fresh mint leaves for tea, making an early lunch before starting her day of yard work and puttering. Plucking a jar of honey from a shelf, she dipped a spoon into the amber, gave the spoon a quick twirl so the strings of sweetness came together, and let it rest in her mug, waiting for the water to whistle. 

Her humble cottage sat by a small glade in the Hinterlands just outside of Redcliffe. A sprawling garden, unkempt but beautiful in its wildness, made its way from her front door to the road just outside. She’d planted herbs, fruits, flowers, and vegetables, and a thick vine of ivy had laid claim to the eastern part of her cottage’s visage. She was an hour’s walk from the city, much less by cart, and her neighbors were more than happy to give her a lift on their way by. 

It was a modest retirement, a stark change of pace from her younger years. Lavellan had spent her youthful days growing a world-shaping organization, and at the time, she assumed building the Inquisition would be the most difficult thing she’d ever do. But she’d grown accustomed to nations jumping to her aid when it was requested or recoiling from a fist when she made it. But the real work came after the Inquisition disbanded, when her influence fell behind the scenes. It had been a jarring transition, leaving the stage. No allies but her closest friends, no resources but her own grit. But one does not just give up on adventuring. Lavellan wheeled and dealed intelligence under the wing of Leliana, trading information instead of blows and shots. The world had changed, and she needed to change with it. 

The bow she wielded for many years hung fondly above her fireplace, dusty, but still well loved. The crossbow armpiece, a gift from Varric’s dear Bianca, sat on the mantle. How useful it had been when she ran missions with Sera as Red Jenny. No right arm to speak of, but at least she had a ridiculous crossbow. Both weapons were conversation pieces now, used to surprise unsuspecting house guests who always left wondering if her stories were true or if she was a wicked old woman with a devilish sense of humor. 

Lavellan blew across her mug of tea and carefully took a sip. Absentmindedly, the old woman touched her breast where the jaw of a wolf hung and closed her eyes. Setting down her tea on a table by the fire, she walked to a dresser and reached into a drawer, pulling from it a small box. With trembling, arthritic fingers, she lifted the lid and pulled from it a folded letter. The parchment was old and yellow, creased from the many, many times she’d reread it over the years.

Sitting down on her small bed by a window, Lavellan tenderly unfolded the letter, smoothing it out so she could read it again, mouthing the words to herself as she did so.

  
  


**_9:56, Solace 5_ **

_My Dearest Friend,_

_It is with great joy that I bring you the news of Fen’Harel’s defeat. Agents and soldiers from all across Thedas came together, in no small part because of our support. I have never seen anything like the united front that formed to bring him down, and I doubt I will ever see anything like it again. It was a privilege to be in Tevinter when it happened, and I am sorry you could not be here with me, though I understand what your work demands of you. The streets are celebrating. The winds of change blow._

_I know you and Solas were close, and I am sorry he could not be saved. I know you wanted him saved. I realize this may not be the thing to ask, but would you receive his body?_

_All of Thedas would see his corpse strung and tarred for what he tried to do, for the pain he caused. All the same, he was a companion of the Inquisition and held a special place in your heart. He has paid for his treachery with his life; he died alone. Perhaps it is only right we do him this one kindness._

_Please let me know your thoughts. My agents have kept his body hidden. I am sure this is bittersweet and painful for you, so do not feel rushed. He will be safe until you have made up your mind._

_Your Sister in Arms,_

_Lady Nightingale_

  
  


Lavellan’s chin trembled, and she wiped her eyes on the back of a wrinkled hand, tucking the letter away again. She then moved to the front door of her cottage and stepped out into the spring day. It was a good day to tend to her flowers.

Sometimes she still visited the home Varric made for her in Kirkwall. Times when she needed to escape her own whirlwind of thoughts. Times like today. But right now her garden needed her. The flowers were just starting to bloom, and a kind neighbor had dropped off a rose bush in need of saving. 

Lavellan dug at the ground with a small shovel, kneeling in the soft red clay as the meek bush sat beside her, waiting for its new home. Its leaves looked burnt and shriveled, and it bore no buds. Her dress was stained with red in the knees, and the color would never come out, no matter how many times she washed and scrubbed it. She had finally learned to let it be.

A younger version of Lavellan had read that letter, and never a shadow of doubt had passed through her then. She had tried, she reasoned, to save him in her way. A promise had been made long ago, that a way to redeem him would be found, and that their love may be enough to pull him back from the edge. But the decision wasn’t hers alone to make, and he never seemed to want to step back from the ledge. And in abdicating her position, the decision to spare him or to kill him fell to another. She never saw him again alive after that promise. 

There was some wisdom in those revelations, but it did not stop the shadows of doubt and regret from forming as years passed. Ghosts began to haunt her, asking the same questions over and over. Had she done the right thing? Was disbanding the Inquisition the right thing to do when it meant she would be farther from the eye of the storm? When she very much knew it could put distance between herself and the one she promised to protect?

Lavellan, satisfied with the depth and width of the hole, steadily lowered the roses into the ground and covered their roots, spreading water over the soil. She patted it with a satisfied hand, whispering words of encouragement. But when Lavellan looked down, she saw how stained from the red soil her hand had become and felt distressed. Rising, the old woman went back inside and quickly drew water into a basin. She plunged her hand into the basin to soak her skin and held her hand there beneath the surface, breathing hard. It would take a few washes for the rusty red to fully fade away.

She had written Leliana back, saying that she would indeed take his body. The Lady Nightingale delivered Solas to her personally. There wasn’t really anything Lavellan could do to prepare herself. She had dove into funeral preparations, building a pyre and gathering herbs and cloths for cleaning. Anything she could do to not think about what was coming for her. A Dalish funeral would have displeased him. Something personal, private would have to do. 

Then one afternoon, the sound of a cart trundling up the road toward Lavellan’s Hinterland cottage caught the breeze. She remembered she’d been sitting beside the fire, trying to write a eulogy, when she heard the grating of wheels and the nicker of a horse. How tight her chest had felt. The words on the page were suddenly and completely foreign to her. The quill in her hand fell to the paper with a clatter, staining it black, and she could not even recall what she had been working on.

She remembered standing up, hurriedly wiping sweating palms off on her pants, racing to the door, and flinging it open. She watched Leliana’s carriage grind its way to her doorstep. The Spy Master, accompanied by two of her agents, stepped from the cart and lifted from it a simple wooden box. Carved into the lid were glyphs she recognized, the kind used to preserve bodies over long distances. 

They’d carried him into her cottage and set the coffin upon her dining table. Leliana had inquired if she should stay, and Lavellan asked for a moment first. The Spy Master understood and quietly saw herself out to wait outside.

Lavellan watched her red hand’s flickering image beneath the water, tears falling from her chin and sending ripples dancing across the water’s surface. She hardly seemed to notice her fingers growing pruney in the tepid water. 

_Waiting for them to leave, looking at the pine box on the table, feeling suddenly nauseated. The room pitches, and she throws up twice, bitter bile spilling from her mouth like fire. Eyes tearing, nose running. She really doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to see him. What if she doesn’t recognize him and he is a monster?_

_She wipes her chin. Trembling fingers lift the lid of the coffin up gently, pushing it a hair back. She waits, then pushes the lid a little more until it clatters to the floor. The glyphs sigh as the magic dissipates. Cool mist rises from the box, drifting away quickly as the cold spell snaps._

_He’s there. She hangs back a little, catching only the edge of him. The tip of his nose, slope of a cheek. Hands resting over his stomach. She forces herself forward._

_Solas is the same and yet different. His face is smooth, eyes closed and a little sunken. There are dark rings around them. His lips are bluish-black, skin milky white, a little yellow in places. Blood has dried between his nose and mouth, crusted and black. His left hand is blue and there’s blood there too, beneath his fingernails. The right arm is twisted and black, like the trunk of a burnt tree. It does not smell, though._

_His clothes are simple. Any armor or finery he wore before he fell has been long stripped away. Solas wears a white tunic painted with dried blood, his or somebody else's she does not know. The rivers of red thread down his neck, dipping beneath the lip of his shirt collar. Her eyes widen as she realizes just how much blood there is._

_Around his neck hangs the pendant of a wolf’s jaw. The same he wore in Haven, in Skyhold. She’d never asked about it, she realizes._

_“Oh, ma Vhenan,” she whispers so only he can hear, cupping his frozen cheek in her palm. “Ma Vhenan. Ir abelas, ma Vhenan. I failed you. I should have been there.”_

_Slowly, she wilts to the floor, her hand gripping the edge of the table above and she weeps. Shuddering sobs that make her chest ache. It is then the whisper of doubt creeps into her heart._

_‘Leliana,’ she asks as she steps outside, tears streaming down her face. ‘Please help me.’ She has but one arm, she explains, and lifting him from the box is too much to do alone. She feels helpless._

_Leliana’s arms fold around her tightly, and she promises to help however she can._

_‘I j-just need help moving the body into a t-tub,’ she stutters. She needs to clean him, to prepare him properly. Leliana understands._

_Leliana helps her lift Solas from the box and into a bath, then sees herself out again to wait in the setting sun._

_Lavellan’s hand pauses at his breast, fingers brushing the jaw hanging there. Gently, she removes the pendant and places it around her own neck. She then undresses him, carefully cutting the tunic and easing it from his body._

_There isn’t a mark upon Solas, no open wound or gashes, no obvious killing blow, just a deep scar that spans from his lower abdomen to his chest. She is glad to not know more than that._

_She fills the bath with cool water, spreading over the surface crushed roses, mint, and rosemary leaves. Their scent is faint. He never cared for his tea strong, or at all._

_She takes the tip of a cotton cloth and dips it into a basin of fresh water at her feet, tenderly touching it to his face, and lifts the blood from his body. She prays as she does so, singing and whispering softly to him, like comforting a child. The water changes are frequent; sometimes she needs help, but she works the stains away. He is clean, but her fingers are slightly stained._

_Leliana helps lift Solas from the tub and lays him upon the sheets for Lavellan to dry him. She works the cloth between his toes, his fingers, closer to him now in death than she’d ever come in life. Solas is carefully dressed in new clothes, each woman careful as she raises him slightly so the other can pull a new tunic and new pants over him._

_Leliana and Lavellan move him to two long stretches of ivory linen and begin wrapping him in his shroud. They tuck the sheets around him and tie them with a stretch of chord. Lavellan looks upon his face one last time, and touches her forehead to his. She kisses his cheek before placing the cloth over his face._

_They carry the body to the back of Lavellan’s cottage and lay it out upon the funeral pyre by the edge of the small grove of trees. Leliana leaves, not caring to attend the funeral, but waits for Lavellan back inside of her home, to be present when she is needed._

_Lavellan stays with Solas beneath the canopy of blinking stars, lying beside him on the ground, while he lies in the sky above her head. She does not speak. She has no more words. But silence was never strange between them; he was one of the few people she could sit comfortably in silence with._

_She does not know how long she spends saying goodbye, keeping vigil over him for as long as she feels appropriate. Then, when the time seems right and the moon is at its highest, Lavellan lights the pyre. The flame is small but grows quickly until it consumes the wood. A thick, black plume of smoke rises, obscuring the heavens above. The heat lashes out, climbing and climbing. It burns all night, and she waits with him._

_Dawn breaks over the horizon, and his pyre has burned low, the last few embers smoldering. She takes a small cloth bag and carefully scoops his remains into it. Then, in the light of the new dawn, she carries him to the peak of a hill overlooking the Hinterlands, its valleys, its snaking streams, the farmlands below, and lets his ashes disappear into the wind._

Lavellan sat in a rocking chair by the hearth in her cottage, her chin resting on her chest as she breathed deeply in sleep. A sound woke her with a start. A cool breeze brushed her cheek like a soft kiss. She leaned into it, closing her eyes and smelling the sweet air. 

There was a clatter behind her. Lavellan blinked her eyes wide, trying to rouse herself. It was late, she knew, the night outside in full bloom. Slowly, bones and joints creaking and quivering, she stood from her chair by the fire and slowly turned to see what it was. 

The front door had opened, banging and bouncing gently against its frame. 

Must have left it open, she thought.

She crossed the room to the door and paused before closing it shut, gazing out across the yard. The snap of a twig made her jump. Poking her head across the doorframe, she glanced left and right, looking to see who might be there disturbing her twigs. There was nobody. But she never truly gave up adventuring. Lavellan pulled a white shawl hanging beside the door and tugged it over her shoulders, wading out into the night. 

It was quiet, unusually so for this time of year. No crickets chirped, no frogs groaned, not even the hiss of mosquitos bothered her ears. The small hairs along her arm stood on end, knowing in her breast that something was strange. She could feel a prickle in the air, creeping along her skin like the long legs of a spider inching its way up. Magic. _The Veil is thin here._ The thought brought a grin to her cherry red cheeks. 

Steadily, she made her way to the back of the house, pulling up the hem of her long skirts so as not to trip. The ripples in the air, bouncing from her, to her house, and to the tree line behind it, guided her. Little bulbs of light twinkled and danced at the edge of the wood, gathering in wisps of ghostly blue light. 

Lavellan walked to the tree line and stood still. Pale winking lights glittered beneath the dark canopy, setting the world aglow. The old woman opened her mouth in an awe filled smile. Then between the trees, she saw the flicker of a shadow, a dark shape moving steadily.

She held her breath as the dark wolf appeared, stepping into the light, pausing with one paw lifted, nose to the ground. It raised its head swiftly, turning its gaze to her. She could see the whites of its eyes catching in the glow around them. 

“ _Ir abelas_! P-please forgive me,” she said sadly to the wolf, stumbling forward a little and looking at her wrinkled hand. “I knew you’d come. I’ve tried to wait for you, but it seems I’ve grown old.”

It regarded her steadily, holding her pleading gaze. Then slowly, it dipped its head to the ground as if bowing to her, as if to say there was nothing to forgive. 

Then the lights began to dim, and the veil that for just a moment, just for her, that had been lifted to show a precious secret, now settled back into place. The wolf turned and crept on, melting into the milky night and was gone.


End file.
